


The Youth Authority

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1930s, F/F, Historical AU, juvenile delinquents, possible incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're bad girls. </p><p>HSWC BR#3 <a href="http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/5337.html?thread=1968345#cmt1968345">prompt</a>: <i>Rose<b><3</b>Roxy, 1930's teen delinquents, USA</i> [<a href="http://babyslime.tumblr.com/post/37775345040/cyprith-basedgaben-garconniere">photo</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Youth Authority

When Roxy is released from serving her time at the conservation camp, Rose meets her train. They rush at each other through the morning crowd, collide and embrace, spin each other round and round, a blur of pale hair and wide smiles.

Even when they have slowed down, they grasp each other's hands so tightly their fingers numb and knuckles go white.

"I expect you'd like to wash up, maybe rest?" Rose asks.

Roxy flashes that sharp-edged grin. "I was cutting down trees and clearing trails, not getting lobotomized."

"So that's a no, then."

Roxy slings her arm around Rose's shoulder, pulling her even closer, knuckling her hair. "Yeah, that's a no. You know what I want to do?"

Rose cocks an expertly, severely-plucked eyebrow. "I'm sure I could never guess."

"Fun," Roxy whispers right into Rose's ear. "Let's have us some _fun_."

Rose smiles against the heat of Roxy's sun-darkened throat. "Indeed."

"But first I need to get the hell out of these damn clothes."

Hearing her swear, a passing salesman hisses. Laughing, Roxy calls, "You looking for some trouble, brother?"

He quickens his pace and they collapse against each other, laughing all the harder. 

They crowd together into the last stall of the Union Station washroom so Roxy can change out of the camp uniform. She lets the dungarees and heavy twill workshirt fall on the wet tile floor, then kicks them against the toilet.

Rose grabs Roxy's wrists and glares down at the welts and scabs criss-crossing her arms.

"Cool it," Roxy says, twisting out of Rose's grasp. "No one hurt me. Just all the prickerbushes up there."

"You sure?"

Roxy cups Rose's cheek. "When have I ever lied to you?"

"True."

They cropped Roxy's hair when she was up there and she tugs and fluffs at it. Rose passes her some bobby pins as well as a lipstick and compact, and is deemed "an angel, an absolute _angel_ ".

"I do try."

Roxy shimmies into the dress Rose hands her, then spins, enjoying the swish of skirt around her legs, before leaning her head against the wall so Rose can zip her up. Rose remains there, pressed against Roxy's back from forehead to pelvis, arms circling Roxy's waist.

They breathe together. Under the institutional detergent stink, Roxy still smells just like _Roxy_ , warm and dusty, crushed petals and grass.

Finally they break apart. Roxy shakes out her hair again, tugs at her dress, then frowns down at her heavy camp lace-ups. "Need some hose. And better shoes."

"I don't know," Rose says lightly, opening the stall door, letting Roxy exit first, "those shoes have a certain plodding charm."

Roxy shakes her fist. "I'll _plod_ you if you keep it up." At the sink, she takes three quick swigs from her flask, smacks her lips, and grabs for Rose's hand. "Okay, _now_ let's have fun."

They hit the station newsstand first. Rose distracts the vendor with a soft, whispery voice and lowered eyes so Roxy can help herself to a good selection of all the magazines she missed while she was away -- _Silver Screen, Photoplay, Charm, Modern Screen, Harper's Bazaar_ , even a few she rarely reads, like _Collier's_ , since Rose is doing so well with the distraction.

Indeed, when they meet up outside, Rose has three packages of fruit pastilles and two packs of cigarettes in her purse. 

It seems as if everything's going their way today, like the whole world is celebrating their reunion. They manage to avoid mean old Pyrope, the truant officer, and they score big at Woolworth's, nabbing three packages of silk stockings in Roxy's favorite shade, a lovely necklace, and even a book of Wharton's short stories for Rose. A pair of raw, lanky country boys buys them lunch at the lunch counter, including a slice of lemon chiffon pie each.

Rose is the brain, Roxy's the doll; Rose schemes, Roxy follows. Or so you'd think. Rose, however, is remarkably skilled with the sharpened knitting needle she keeps up her sleeve -- mad Condy Peixes's five puncture wounds, received when she pushed Roxy around one night, are proof enough of _that_. And Roxy's plans might be unconventional, even occasionally hare-brained, but they always seem to work out.

They are a sight to behold, dashing hand-in-hand down the street, their unnaturally bright Marcelled waves flying back, high-pitched hoots of laughter streaming out, their sharp white teeth shining almost primally. They bump into old people, shout oaths at drivers, mouth off to respectable women, pick pockets and smoke cigarettes and suck jawbreakers until their mouths are stained red and blue and collaborate on yet greater, crimes.

They're always running from something -- wild and delighted, drunk on their own daring, brighter and prettier and braver than you could ever dream.

They're never headed anywhere in particular. The thrill is in the escape, the dash, never the destination.

"You two sisters?" one of the boys asks. He's got kind eyes, dark green, and a shy grin.

Rose and Roxy share a glance before speaking together. "Could be."

"Twins," he says.

"Maybe."

They certainly could be sisters. Appearing in the baby boom after the 1922 comet, they both grew up in county care, foundling homes and group residence. Maybe their father is someone famous -- Rose proposes Booth Tarkington, perhaps Ford Madox Ford, but Roxy prefers Buster Keaton or Rudolph Valentino. Whoever they are, they're as close as sisters. Closer, really.

"How close?" the other boy asks. He's bolder than the first, leering, his hands heavy and clumsy on Roxy's waist.

"This close," Rose replies.

As they kiss, the boys gaping, elbowing each other, Rose cups Roxy's breast and Roxy kneads Rose's ass.

"Holy _shit_ ," the boys say, husky, awed.

Roxy clutches at Rose's hip, bunching the fabric of her dress, pushing her tongue deeper.

Rose runs her hand up and down Roxy's arm, calming her. She glances over at the boys. "Close enough?"

As they break apart, Rose winks at Roxy, who gets the signal and knows to duck left. Rose jumps right, needle in her fist, and the boy crumples when it pierces his shoulder. Roxy twists the nicer boy's arm back, makes him howl as she pockets his wallet before kissing his cheek in apology, then knees his crotch.

They run all the way back to Lolartown, ducking down steps and into laneways whenever a beat cop passes. They are breathless and elated as they storm up the five flights in their rooming house and burst into the tiny room they share.

It is hot, very close, in here. The narrow bed abuts the rickety vanity, which runs right up against the single narrow window. It smells damp, and like cabbage, in the hallway but in their room, the scent is of their stolen soap and favorite perfumes.

They collapse next to each other on the bed, sinking into the middle, and their laughter gradually splutters to a stop.

The wallpaper is still the same hideous yellowed print of garden lattices and nearly-obscene lilies. Though she's been gone for ten weeks, Roxy's pictures are still pinned up above Rose's stacks of books.

In the darkening room, they share a cigarette. Their two shades of lipstick, pink and mauve, mingle on the crisp paper.

"You never answered my letters," Rose says at last. She's squinting down at the worn chenille bedspread, shoulders hunching just a little.

"You're the poet," Roxy replies, bumping her hip into Rose's. "I never know what to say. Never say it right."

"That's not true."

"Well." Roxy sucks on a strawberry candy, then adds, "I'm back now."

"You are. And I never thought --" Rose stops, then shakes herself slightly as if remembering a secret. "Welcome home."


End file.
